In fact, normally, I find beautiful things in the rain. The way the shrubs and trees and grass burst with luscious life. They way they pop with extra vibrancy against their bleak grey backdrop.

The fresh smell of things revived.

The moist in the air that feels like it’s good for my skin. The jewelish patterns it leaves on the windowpanes. The sound of it panging the roof.

And hey, I’m always wanting a valid reason for a roaring fire.

But tonight, I feel sad listening to the pitter of raindrops smacking on the outside shell of my world. For whatever reason, this night is not one of those nights that I’m willing to search for brightness amongst the streaky, cellophaned streets or the drippy ink sky.

No. Tonight, I just want to be sad.

And that’s alright. Because sadness is poetic. We are lucky to live the sad moments. And rarely do we stay sad forever, right?

Sad is not the enemy.

Because being completely sad is, after all, the very thing that allows us to know when we are completely happy.

And we know this, because our hearts tell us. And so does the wise Louis CK…

It’s bucketing. If you can’t hear it, you should get your ears checked. I love the rain and sufficiently so, reside in a city where it rains…just a smidge. (sarcasm button gets a nudge here)

I find it inspiring in a “Hey – stay home, it’s dry” kind of way. The drizzling’s akin to the crack of a fire or the snap of fatty bacon and it spits, “Yeah – don’t go out, it’s wet.”

It tells me to ditch the dust and draw the drapes. The smatterings of spatterings spur me to instead open a book or clack those creative keys. It suggests I simmer a pot of steamy broth or a hearty stew. It begs, “create.”

I don’t make my usual stop for a skinny macchiato. It’s raining too hard and my hands are too full, one gripping my swaying umbrella, and the other, my slippery phone. Aware that any sensible person would ignore a text under these conditions, I swipe away, trying to access Nikki’s message but my fingers are wet and slide uselessly over the slick screen. My attempt futile, I slip the phone back in my pocket and wish I’d made a java stop after all. Now I’d be forced to drink the ‘coffee’ Troy made every morning. Bless his little stock boy heart.

The store is quiet and everything, as it always does when The Box is closed, feels surreal. I know a lot of the staff feel eery in the big store when it’s not open for business, but not me. My spirits lift the moment that warm whoosh of air escapes the big glass doors and meets my face. There’s something about the white, high-glossed floors and the atmosphere fused with leather, lavender, lotions and limitless blood, sweat and tears. It’s home to me.

Taking a moment to right myself, pulling in the calm and pushing out the clutter, I feel my heart rate slow as drops of water meander off my boots and onto the gleaming floor.

“Seth, you’re pushing…” I smile and walk away, telling him I’ll see him at lunch.

The ride up the arced escalator is soothing and the view from half way is simply stunning. I drift up backwards to take it all in. The Swarovski handrails glisten and their magnificent flecks are scattered throughout the store. The billowing silk screens, blown by forced air, almost lick me as I glide by and Jalisse, the raven-haired black beauty looks like she’s swooning to the piped in Musak as she greets me at the top. Draped in a royal blue Maxi dress, she smiles gracefully, letting me know I’ve made the right choice and that the new attire pleases her.

I’m almost completely pacified by the time I step off. My you didn’t get the promotion because I’m giving it to Denise worries nearly forgotten. But just as I’m passing Jalisse I notice a dot on her chin, a white chip marring her beautiful milk chocolate complexion.